


Spilled Poet

by zixinyu



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (2010), Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: AU, Because I Couldn't Resist, Blacksand - Freeform, M/M, fill from dreamwidth actually, minor Hijack pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 22:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zixinyu/pseuds/zixinyu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Pitch is a writer, Sandy is his editor. And then there's Jack, who is his annoying roommate that just so happens to 'accidentally' send out Pitch's personal poetry. (Psst, it's about his feelings for a certain short blond editor.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spilled Poet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pretzel_logic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pretzel_logic/gifts).



“What did you just say?”

“I said I submitted your poem to that book offer you got. I mean, they were asking for a piece from you right? Your editors' co-editor stopped by the other day, and boy was Tooth like a hound thirsting for a piece of meat! A poet is as good as any piece of writing she says, so I-”

“That’s not the point!” Pitch screeched, “The point is that you did that _without_ my permission!”

“Woah, Pitch! Relax!” Jack raised his arms up in defence, “It was damn good piece! You know, it’ll be a waste to just let it sit there in your room locked away like that. And I mean literally _locked away_ , what was it doing in that box there anyway?” “That was a private work Jack!” Pitch stressed, “You don’t just go submitting things you find in a _locked_ area. I repeat; _a locked area_ that I don’t even want to know how you managed to pry open!”

“I’m… sorry?”

Pitch sighed, slumping down in his seat as he grumbled out, “You remember that thing you asked me to do a few days back?”

“You mean when you were in one of your writer’s block moments because of your undying love-”

“Jack!”

“-for your ol’ pal-”

“Too much information Jack!”

“-Sanderson Man-I-am-so-oblivious-of-Pitch’s-affection-towards-me-Snoozie until you wouldn’t stop whining-"

“Wha- I-I was **not** whining Jack!”

”-about your unreturned love that I asked you to just vent out in some kind of way? Yeah I remember, what about them? It’s not like you jus…” Jack trailed off, face scunched up in thought.

"Let it sink in Jack, let it sink."

“Don’t tell me that was…”

* * *

_“I dunno, vent it on paper maybe? That’s what I do with my canvas… makes me feel a hell lot better. Might work with you too- come on, give it a shot!”_

_“That just says nothing other than providing much explanation of the presence of that one legged brunet in your paintings Jack.”_

_The frosty boy threatens_ (I was just saying Pitch!) _if he’ll talk_ (that was not talking Pitch, it was totally whining!) _to him about his… romantic issues once more he’ll record the conversation and send it up to the man in question himself. That certainly won’t do, and while Jack was a dear friend, he had a far to big of a heart. He was those kinds of_ _friends that tended to go out of their way to do things for you, oftenly are things that you might not approve. Such as vandalizing bullies’ item for an instance- not acceptable but still desired to occur._

_His eyes strayed to his fountain pen, lying innocently on his study, just under the light of the lamp nearby- the light seemed to make the pen glow as if sent from heaven in a yellow hue. Yellow as the blond hair that defies gravity and yet still can look as soft as cotton candy, how he would love to run his fingers over them. Trying to smooth out the hair into a slick style like his, only to see it pop back into place gently yet firmly- firm… firm like the man himself, with a body built like that. Plump and deliciously delectable; if the hair was cotton candy what would his skin taste like? Like the melting sugary creampuffs that Jack buys each Sunday? He imagines his tongue racing across that expense of skin, twirling around the ni-_

_He blinked; face slightly warming, like his hand that was gripping his pen. Huh, when did that happen?_

_Oh, would you look at that…_

_By moons, turns out he had written something down. He lifted the paper up, eyes scanning its contents. It wasn't half-bad, he supposes as he resumed his actions. The words, all those rhymes and bents… they didn’t stop flowing out._

* * *

Pitch wished he had known a bit sooner though, preferably **before** the stupid brat decided to bring his work to public. Granted, the submission had a possibility of being rejected, but with the letter of approval and congratulations in his hands concerning said submission- it has concluded how sealed up his doomed fate is. He wishes he could run and snatch that accursed paper away. Like the words of Alice Meynell’s ‘ _I run, I run, I am gathered at thy heart’._

“Oh damn dude!” Jack scratched the back of his neck, “That poem of yours, it’s about Sanderson ain’t it? You’re supposed to write it as a confession then hand it over to Sandy but you didn’t! You were totally just gonna let it rot there and wallow in more self misery!”

“Jack, back to the topic.”

“You wouldn’t give it to him, but I just handed it in a silver platter to not only him, but possibly the whole _public viewing system_!”

Yes, thank you for summing that up Jack.

“Jack-”

“I am awesome!”

“What? No! Why would this incident grant you the rank of awesome?!”

“Dude, don’t you see? I just totally gave you the push to give it to your undying love! I mean, that stuff I told you to let out your feelings, that was what I told you last **month**! That means it’s been ages and you _still_ haven’t given it to him!”

“I-I was going to give it to him! (A snort came from Jack) Eventually anyway, I was simply bidding my time. As I recall I’ve asked none of _your_ meddlesome help!”

“Nope, you won’t. You and I both know that the poetry won’t even get out of this building if I hadn’t done something about it.” Jack deadpanned, with an utterly ridiculous attempt of a poker-face expression that makes Pitch want to strangle the living breath out of the boy, had he not known him for the better years of his life (and no, it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact Jack’s presence just seem to freeze up the solitude in Pitch’s black, black in denial of a heart- just so you know that is).

“How do you kno-”

“Come on ol’ man, I’ve known you for what? A year now since I moved in here? I am so officially your best friend, and have gained the ability to predict your every single move! I’m physic! You totally need help!” He sang, “Thus, as you best friend, I hereby declare the starting line of your love operation!”

“Operation?! You mean you planned this?”

“I shall neither deny nor say ‘aye’ to that.” Jack patted his back in a mocking yet assuring way that only Jack could do, “It’s for the best Pitch; it’s for the best.”

The dark haired man simply groaned, grumbling at the grand scale of problems- as if it would make them stumble and fall into nothing. Lizette’s _‘stumble to silence all you uneasy things_ ’ running through his head like a mockery crow’s cry.

 

+-+-_-+-+

 

In the cool office of the Editorials of Manny’s Guardians Book Publishing Company, a soft quiet yet satisfied sigh can be heard from the office of one Sanderson Mansnoozie, should one strain their ears enough. “Exquisite…” He mumbled at the draft in him hands; his plump self shivering with emotion. How long has it been since words have been arranged so lovingly that they became capable of inflicting such reactions from him?

Far, far too long, Sandy thought, hands caressing the paper softly. Such wonderful usage of words, all forming a sphere to perfectly contain the feelings of the author, but is able to let it overflow at the same time… it does not make much sense, but as a man who views fantasy from different angles each day of his life, he did not question the works of imaginations when spilled into ink and letters. Speaking of the author though… who wrote such a dear piece?

Sprawled in black ink, perfectly written name of _Kozmotis Pitchiner_ sat on the corner of the sheet. Now that’s one name Sandy will recognize anywhere- not there are many people who go with that name anyway.

Pitch? Pitch wrote this? The Pitch who never writes without research? Without knowing exactly what each character, each word, each action, each consequences will do or how they feel like? The one who once asked a man how it felt to drown and shortly after attempted to do himself? Just to get that piece of paragraph its realistic feel… that _Kozmotis Pitchiner_ _?!_

The poet, the **love** ballad then… it must’ve have had some personal feelings of Pitch in it! Sandy knows love- one cannot research it to know how it felt, so is it possible… that Pitch himself is actually in love, and is writing himself as the view of the character in the poetry?

Sandy gulped.

No… it’s for certain. Pitch always goes personal for his writings, without fail. Every single work of his always had his touch, his moments with them… It just has to be. His breath slowly but surely became slightly… what was the word? Erratic was it? Possibly so, he thinks. His hands gripped the paper tightly, creases starting to form here and there from clenching, just possibly, like that tiny little thing in his chest that started with the letter ‘h’.

_Gods it aches, is it a heart or a burden of a mountain he carries?_

 

+-+-_-+-+

“Eh, he’ll probably just shrug it off as one of your imagination spazz.”

“You do not understand the severity of this situation do you?” Pitch grumbled, “Jack, really though, there is no possible way he’ll not know who it is. You know my stories Jack! I’ve always, always placed a bit of myself in my words. There’s not a single work of mine that has not gone without something from me!”

“Oh yeah… you’re most known for that- I think,” Jack grinned, “Remember that time you asked me to watch you drown just so you can write about it, and help you should _‘things go for wear’_? That’s was just extreme dude, like the look on Sandy’s face when he came by to ask you about that in your script-”

“Oh by stars, Sanderson!” Pitch paced around the room, “He’s bound to be here soon. Procedures of check up on writing and all…” “Oh yeah!” Jack stood up from the black couch, clicking his fingers as if he had finally discovered how the toaster works instead of the near-impending doom Pitch is in, “And that just means I’m gonna be plain outta here.” He grabbed his keys from the tables and straightened his blue jacket, “Call me when you’re done with your sexual tension, yeah?”

“Frost! Don’t you dare run away or god so help me I’ll-”

“Later ol’ man!”

The loud slam of the apartment left him pretty dumbfounded- and screwed.

 

+-+-_-+-+

The chime of the old grandfather clock by the living room struck its last chime for the hour of his due doom, and Pitch groaned, sweating buckets and shivering with… what? Anticipation? Fear? Worry? What was a word one used to describe this situation? Curses to the Man in the Moon, he was bloody a writer yet this situation could creep up upon him and simply pull the rug beneath his feet, leaving him falling to an endless, what? Pitch? Abyss of wordlessness?

He could imagine Jack laughing in his mind now- laughing his stupid arse off in the cold-

_Ring! Ring! Ring!_

His hands tingled, clenched and unclenched they go as he trudged down the lane to his (still ringing- Why was it still ringing?) front door. His stomach felt sick- sicker than he had been when he was pulled out by Jack at the very last minute with such brute force he would’ve flown off had it not been the water weighing him down. He took a inhaled a breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he did so and biting his lips (Ugh, he’s _such_ a _girl_ ) and swung the door open- why was he even afraid of such a little everyday encounter with a pudgy little-

Ah, he’s blushing.

Sure enough, the man of his (what? Affection? Love of his very confusing life? Uh, attention! Attention works fine. Not too shabby and not too cheesy- like Swiss Cheese) was pretty much just standing there in front of him with a surprised face, with his hand still raised forward and frozen in a knocking-door-pose, and damn if it wasn’t just adorable (what is wrong with him today he wonders?) Huh, he’s derailing but the man is still frozen and blushing with that little hint of red in his puffy cheeks. (Or was it Pitch himself delusioning? Was that even a word?)

Soon, though, Sandy blinked owlishly and smiled, a bit sheepishly at that too (why do they call it sheepishly? It wasn’t like that expression had anything to do with sheep) and walked right in. Like it was his home, like it was a humble abode that he could roll around in (and won’t that just be absolutely lovely?) instead of the result of the whirlwind that was Jack and Pitch- they’ve never had much time to clean the room, with Pitch the only one pitching in and Jack fluttering off to who knows where.

“Are you just going to stand there by the door Pitch?” Sandy laughs (Why does it sound a bit choked? Was the room really that bad? Pitch was sure he at least got rid of the papers from his discarded ideas, and Jack’s failed essay attempts. He really wants to ask.)

“But of course Sanderson.” He says instead, and shuts the door.

 

+-+-_-+-+

The kettle had boiled and the tea was poured into the teacups, not much to do there. Why was it so damn awkward? Was it always like this when Sanderson came over to discuss over his works? (Little as they were, but never the less was his feeling of satisfaction at them, except when he read them over- the faults he could see)

“This is yours isn’t it? The one you submitted in?” Sandy asked, as he took out the draft from his briefcase, an A4 sized envelope to which he scooped up to his hands and opened, scanning the insides.

_Way out of such roads- Nonsense they were_   
_A peek of a light- you obviously, occupying the sun’s place_   
_Such nonexistent came to be, with the sight of forms-_   
_To see you, I run and run and run-_

_I follow you, like eight spins to nine_   
_In the sincere shape of an empty bowl is your lips_   
_In the knots of silk, troubled through saccharine_   
_In the selfish way-_

_I’ve written you down-_

Pitch slipped the paper in silently, and nodded. It was his work all right, down to the very last dot and the phrase. As much as he disliked such state he was knee-deep in, it wasn’t in his book nor virtue to ignore a work he had made- be it horrid or not.

“Well Sanderson? How was it? Cheesy as Nicholas’ cookies?” He laid back to the comforts of his couch, yellow bright for reasons he still couldn’t fathom till this day, “Heaven forbid should he be separated from his kitchen during Christmas, all those treats he’ll make…” “Oh, it was brilliant, you’ve outdone yourself so far,” Sandy commented, “Pray tell though, what did you do this time?” “Pardon me?” He raised an eyebrow, an inviting banter. “No sea without rivers Pitch, like you’ve no work with no research.”

“It was just that _one_ time you’ve asked Sanderson! It hardly makes up for _all_ my works…”

“That’s not what Jack told me.” Sandy grinned; his eyes squinted from his pudgy cheeks. (Both which were turning rosy red and doesn’t that just hit his heart right in the centre?). “Come now Kozmotis Pitchiner, spill the beans already. It’s not like at all you to stall.” He teased, “I’m curious, is all.” “It’s private Sanderson; don’t you know a magician never reveals his secrets?” Pitch retorted back lightly, in that half joke tone (at least he hoped it was, it wasn’t much too hurriedly put out was it?).

“Well, you’re a magician of words though. I can’t say no to that… Not even a hint Pitch?”

“No!” He replied back, a little too hurried and a little too loud. If his face wasn't red then, it sure was bound to be red now, “A little privacy if you will Sanderson. Have you always been this snoopy?”

Snoopy? Really Pitch? Really? There goes his vocabulary skills folks; out of the window and running off saying ‘I’m gone!’ along hand in hand with his dignity. Oh curses to you Jack, curses to you.

“Too bad,” The other man made a face, “I’d really like to know though, who the lucky lady is. She must’ve been quite a charm, to have caught a hurricane like you.” Sandy laughs again, but this time it fades off into the silence, and Pitch sat up straight, staring blankly into the man before him. "Yes, I suppose so." His hands coiled themselves around his cup, and raised it to his lips- this whole situation was bugging him. What else could he do?

Well, isn’t this sad?

“I-Is she... Is she beautiful? A fair skinned one I suppose? Rosy cheeks and all?” Sandy grinned (with a slump, mind you, as if Pitch would miss that), “A true snow white I’ll say… Like the poem… for her… one lucky girl…huh Pitch?”

What is this? Where was the usual banter they’ll both have? The one where Sanderson will talk about grammar and phrases or even occasionally guess what certain words have, peeling slightly the layers upon layers of meaning and derailing roads that misled to horrible conclusions with Pitch smirking at his vain attempts? Where was that familiar scene? Why are you asking such questions Sanderson? Was it out to torture him? The blasted man, wasn’t it obvious who the poem was focusing on?!

“Sanderson, are you all right?” Pitch asked, because there was no use beating around the bush- that was what he’d do to his writing and not his life, thank you very much. Embarrassment be damed, like Jack should be too- for causing this mess in the first place! Now he can't even talk to the little man in peace!

“Oh?” Speaking of the man... he didn’t look all right though, his eyes were cloudy and indiscernible through a foggy haze and it did nothing to assure Pitch at all. “I’m… fine… It was just… a really great poem… I don’t think it’ll need any further discussion…” “What? No banter today Sanderson? You’ve figured out the point of it all already?” (What if he has? If he knows, that’s just bound to be really, really, awkward right? He still needs to work with the man after all… Is he being this hurried because he knows?)

“No, none today I’m afraid… I… I have to go Koz. It’s all going to be approved by the rest of the editors anyway, I’ll just… be off now…”

"I'll see you out the door then?"

"No it's all right, I-I'll manage just fine, thank you."

By the time Sandy’s left, Pitch slumped against the door- what has he done?

 

+-+-_-+-+

“Hello! Jack speakin’ here!”  He grinned into his phone, as he tried to open the tiny package of food, while Hiccup merely stood beside him, scissors ready at hand whenever the other was ready to kick down his stubbornness and actually open the pack of chips _already_. He was just about to ask who was on the phone when Jack’s voice turned low and deep and plain _annoyed._

“What? The hell did you do that for Pitch?! Why did you let him go damn it? Ain’t it kinda obvious he’s into ‘ya?”

Huh, Pitch… wasn’t he the guy Jack says he’s rooming with? He actually liked some of the things the man has written. Something about his works just felt… alive… warmth, coldness, despair, hope… little pieces sewn on words and paper.

“He did that? Dude, you’re a writer but you can’t differentiate uncomfy-ness and jealousy?! The heck is wrong with you man? What are you standing around there for? Get out there and go get a bike or a cab or hell, run down the damn road after him Pitch! You ain’t gonna get the man if you don’t fight for it, I sure as hell would do that.”

Why yes, yes he would ladies and gentlemen, Hiccup can testify to that.

“Oh yeah? Well it beats sittin’ around the house all day in self pity. Get the fuck out of there Pitch or so help me I will drag you out of that house, whether you like it or not! We’ll have this court room where you gotta confess your undying love for Sandy even if it’s the last thing I do! Look, he wouldn’t tell you or ask you about the _girl_ you like if he knows the poem was about _him_ , and last I met him, I’m damn sure he was a dude. What more proof do you need?"

More silence, and Hiccup can pretty much make out a rough idea about what the conversation was about.

"Mhmm, yep, why yes. Yes I am a genius and you’re not, now get out there and go! Want me to pick you up? Hah? You’ll seriously run? Grab some money and hail a cub or something; I ain’t gonna comb through the town to look for you if you happen to get lost or faint in the middle of the road."

He will though, Hiccup snorted. Even though Jack says he won't, he knows he will. A bit too big of a heart on his frosty hands.

“Yeah, sure, and Pitch? I’d say good luck but that’s just silly since I know you’re gonna get him anyway so… yep, go get him!”

He slapped the cellphone down and let out a breath, nodding his head in content. “Huh, didn’t know you were that passionate about romance and stuff. You’d usually whine about him whining to you, which is kinda a bit of a hypocrite of you if you ask me.” Hiccup deadpanned. “Hiccup!” Jack feigned a gasp, “I didn’t know you’ve forgotten how much of a pro I am in these things! You poor uneducated forgotten soul! Now, let’s remedy that shall we?”

“Jack… Jack! We’re in the park for Odin’s sake! JACK!”

-

He walked straight to his office, knuckles white and tense as his whole body marching into the facility, earning him worried looks from his colleges. Not that he cared; everything around him was a mixture white noise and flashing backgrounds because he couldn’t stand anything that was black and gray anymore. The sweet bliss that was when he touched the handle to his door to swing it open and into the lit room he went, into the space where he knew nothing but words and light. A little punch on the door knob, and with a clink, he locked himself in his haven.

No more darkness, no more black, no more Pitch.

_Is it possible to feel this way? When he’s just found such ideas or realization of the presence such affections from his 45-minute mulling to and back from the man’s lair? The man who has admired another to write- to write such an extravagant masterpiece dedicated to his mystery woman as she with her long locks dancing in the wind spun around her slim body around with it?_

Because being an editor means seeing many window panes to people’s minds, and that's all he really does actually. Reading and checking and grading- like those of a teacher. Pitch was a whirl of emotions and words and brilliancy while he merely trailed along with woven ropes worn by others that he’ll never be able to create on his own. And with those ropes, even if he made a net to catch the man, he'll fail miserably. Like fleeting shadows, he'll slip past through the holes and dance around in his own world.

_Probably with her- whoever she is._

Like catching wind, he supposes, the free wind or the slick shadows crawling upon the corners of his ceilings, and the corner of his eyes through the- wait what?

He peeked through the binds, and he heard the unmistakeably angry voices of the pale man and a certain familiar Australian accent mixing in the shouts. His heart however, beat louder than the yells and he felt like screaming- Will hiding underneath his desk help? It was dark underneath, silly thing, was it a good time to even think of such things? Why doesn’t his office have more hiding places for situations like this?

Sandy grumbled and slid down to the ground, taking refuge under the wooden pine tree wood. Face buried into his tiny knees, he felt his blubber touching his legs as he folded himself up, and he felt tired all over again. Ugh, why is this bothering him now when he hasn’t had much of a care in the world for his weight in his recent days? He used to rather like being adorably bubbly on the edges- blame it all on the man. The jingling sounds North's master set key unlocking the entrance, and the creaking sounds of its hinges being opened. Following that, was the little jingle the attached bell made, with the quiet slam of the door. His office was covered with rugs, so there wasn't even the tell-tale sounds of footsteps for Sandy to look out for. He wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not.

There was the sounds of ruslting paper, and a little hum by the man's voice. The soft vibrating tone that lulled Sandy into peace, not dragging, but silently sinking him down into the depths. A few moments later, it stopped. An agonizing period of silence covered the room like a blanket as Sandy held his breath. He bit his lips when the chair in front of him rolled away with its wheels, revealing the pathway into his tiny little hideout. Then again, it wasn't much of a pathway than it being a direct gateway to it. Slick shows came into his sigh, and a whisper of his name reached his ears when he curled himself in further.

“Sanderson, come out of there. It is highly unbecoming of you, regardless of how impressive it is that you can actually fit there.”

He tried to winggle himself a bit deeper, would this little comfortable place swallow him whole before the man before him could have a chance? Please? For the sake of his little beating heart? Why is this man here?

“Sanderson…” Pitch bent his knees and kneeled before him, face also tired and yet restless at the same time. He opened his mouth several times, attempting hard to say his mind, while Sandy merely watched from his tiny little corner. Finally, when the words are out, there were:

“I’m sorry.”

He looked up from his place and into the man’s bright golden eyes, questioning as he raised an eyebrow because honestly? Why?

“It wasn’t about a girl, that poem.”

Oh, that thing. Those words are supposed to be his to say, weren't they? After all, it him who ran out of the man without so much as a word that doesn't scream 'Heartbreak and Jealousy right here for your pleasurable viewing!'

“I know a love story when I see one Pitch,” Sandy grunted out, “It was one, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Pitch nodded, settling himself down to sit on the floor, and Sandy merely huffed at the sight of the man’s long legs trying their best to fit in the limited space between the desk, chair, wall and the mountain of papers that was Sanderson’s job. He wallowed at how much of the man was around him now. long legs seemed to incircle him like a wall. “It wasn’t about a girl though.”

A boy then, a lucky handsome boy- Jack probably, he was always around Pitch wasn't he? 

“But it’s about a lover isn’t it?”

“Granted, a not-yet-lover, it's rather unrequited so to speak.”

“Won’t be that way for long,” Sandy snorted, “Once we get that published you’ll get your dream guy.”

“I don’t think so Sanderson,” Pitch sighed forlornly, “Not when the man himself is not even keen enough to tell me what he thinks of the poem itself.” “You’ve shown it to him already huh?” Sandy concluded, his head conjuring up images of Pitch showing it to the mystery man (Jack definitely qualifies as a candidate, the lanky male was his roommate for MiM's sake!), and being rejected, maybe that was the point of the story? If it was, that was a bad move on the other side’s part, in Sandy’s opinion that is.

Pitch twitched, and pinched the bridge of his nose, whispering tiny words. Sandy looked up to the man in surprise because- _what did he just say?_

He must’ve spoken that outloud, because Pitch whispers again, face looking down to the ground but still Sandy asks- _what?_

The man repeats it again, and again, and Sandy slams his head up to the bottom of the desk in surprise because did he just hear what he _think he just heard_?

* * *

 

_“What?”_

_“It’s you, you bumbling ball of idiocy! It’s always been you! Right from the start of ‘The Two Lands’ it was you until now!”_

_“Yo-you mean… that poem… it was… about me?”_

_“Must I repeat myself Sanderson? Yes, yes it was- ufh!”_

_Sandy laughed._

**Author's Note:**

> I remember planning this out to be a really, really short story with a tiny little fluffy confession. And then, it turned out to this (sadly, horribly written out) monster, in which my playlist insist on playing How To Train Your Dragon music and thus POOF! Came out Hiccup and Jack! 
> 
> I hope it was to your liking! (And yes, ugh to the whole emotional process, as I fail so damn badly at romance that even an elephant could best me in his/her sleep). Merry Christmas everyone!


End file.
